Helpless
by Azaisya
Summary: Neophyte Redglare was hopelessly, undeniably pale for her boss. Unfortunately, they both knew the taboo; subjugglators and legislacerators couldn't take moirails. They must decide whether or not they're willing to break the rule, and one event might just push them far enough. Highglare, pale romance, oneshot, crossposted on AO3


**this is just shameless, self-indulgent fluff. mostly inspired by ask-redglare over at tumblr!**

* * *

Redglare wasn't sure how much more she could take. She'd become legislacerator under the assumption that she'd be working for justice and, more importantly, alone. God, how wrong she'd been.

Her eyes fell on her partner. His back was to her, his movements erratic as he slammed his club into a lowblood's body. In the beginning, she'd hated him with an intensity that overrode even the black quadrant.

 _(Besides, she'd never been very good with the concupiscent quadrants. Drone season was a nightmare)_

But more importantly, her partner was currently beating up a dead person and all she could find in her blood-pusher was _pity_. Redglare squeezed her eyes shut to hide the trembling in his shoulders, the tangles in his hair, and the gauntness of his frame.

But there was no way to ignore his ragged breathing or the wet crash of his club into the corpse. Her eyes flew open and her sword clattered to the mud-softened earth as she dug her fingernails into her palms, fighting the urge to step forwards and just pap him.

 _You're a legislacerator._

But he's injured!

 _He's the leader of the subjugglators._

He'll hurt himself more.

 _You know the laws._

But he's losing himself.

 _Legislacerators and subjugglators can't fill their pale quadrant._

Redglare closed her eyes again, trembling, unable to watch as her partner destroyed himself. Because she knew it was true. By nature, a moirail gentled, pacified, tamed, calmed, quieted. What good was a passive legislacerator or a gentle subjugglator? Especially _together_?

She heard a sickening crack and her eyes flew open. He was standing very still now, one arm hanging crookedly. A low growl filled the air and he whirled abruptly, his club raised in his good arm. Despite her trepidation, Redglare leaped forwards, one hand outstretched.

He reacted instantly, mad red eyes snapping to her, his stance undeniably hostile. She ducked under his first blow and placed her hands on his cheeks.

She was terrified, every muscle in her body tensed to flee. "Kurloz," she murmured, voice choked, "Kurloz, you're hurting yourself."

He let out a savage sound and she immediately, firmly, papped him. His skin was rough under her hands, his paint peeling and cracking under layers upon layers of blood.

"Shhh. . . ." With trembling fingers, she stroked his cheek. What a bizarre picture they made, a legislacerator and a subjugglator standing alone in a field of grass, blood, and bodies. He was so much taller than her; she had to reach up to touch his face.

His breath was hot on her skin, but she kept papping him quietly. She could see the strain drifting from his body, the anger melting from his face. It was oddly exhilarating, to know that she — a neophyte legislacerator! — had brought the Grand Highblood himself back from a rage!

Soon his eyes were half-lidded, his head tilted into her touch. His clubs dropped to the ground and he spoke. His words made her jump, but they were soft and gentle. "Ain't never seen such a bold motherrfucker as you before, candy lawyer."

Redglare stiffened, feeling suddenly cold and hot at the same time. "Oh God." She hastily jerked backwards, suddenly painfully aware that she'd just acted very openly pale in a very public manner to her partner _and boss._

The back of her heel hit a corpse and she went down, landing on her back amid a pile of bodies. A shaky laugh escaped her all in one gasp, and she made to stand. To her surprise, the Grand Highblood sat down next to her and tugged the corpse out from under her knees. With hands still wet with blood, he placed a firm pap on her cheek.

Redglare stared up at him, mouth open and cheeks teal. He traced his fingers through her hair, and she pushed herself up into a sitting position, a sudden surge of pity filling her for this massive purpleblood.

She pushed his injured arm away and tangled her fingers in his hair, working out the tangles and knots. Soon she was in his lap, their arms tangling and intertwining until they were both burning from their mutual touches. Redglare tucked her head into his collarbone and trilled softly.

Soon, they were still.

She'd never felt so at ease in her life, never felt so at home as she did now, enclosed in his arms. It was even paler than pale porn.

"What is this?" she murmured, stunned that she was here now and in this moment.

His voice came from above her head, and his chest rumbled beneath her. "Don't think I don't motherfucking know, sistermine." He placed his chin lightly between her horns. "You got your motherfucking pale all up and on for me?"

She reached up and blindly brushed her fingers across his cheek. "I'd be lying if I said no."

He caught her hand and held it, dry blood flaking off and alighting in her hair like wayward autumn leaves. "Ain't never had a moirail before."

She nodded, understanding the history behind his words without needing to be prompted. Wasn't that what moirails did? Understand each other? "It's not good for us."

He, too, understood. He'd been a wiggler once too. He'd been taught the taboo against moiraillegiance once, same as her. It wasn't just forbidden. It was illogical. It went against their base beliefs and tampered with their abilities to do their jobs well. It was very likely that, come tomorrow, neither of them would ever speak of this again.

He said slowly, voice thoughtful , "I don't give a fuck right now, candylawyer. So long as you got your pleasure all up and on for our motherfucking serendipity."

Redglare bit back a laugh. "Shoosh. I assure you that I am more than content right now!" And so she was. She was cuddling with the Grand Highblood in a field of corpses and the stench was awful and his legs were bony. It was illicit and taboo and she loved it.

* * *

For his part, the Grand Highblood was thinking long and hard. He'd known for a very long time that his feelings for his Neophyte weren't professional . For a time, when they'd first met and she'd purposefully acted aggravating, he'd been able to fool himself into thinking he was black for her. Black was easier than pale. Better. Black was a rivalry, a challenge, a push to better oneself before one's kismesis did. But pale? Pale was _passive_. It was warm and gentle and kind and nothing he should ever have himself.

As the sky lightened, he scooped up his sleeping Neophyte and strode form the field. Even with his injuries, she was tiny enough that he was able to do so easily. With uncharacteristic softness, he pressed a kiss to her brow. She'd sleep well once morning came. He wouldn't.

After being seen to by docterrorists, he paced his throne room, agonizing over the decision he'd have to make. The proper thing to do would be to ignore it, to let whatever had happened remain a one-night stand.

But pale one-night stands were messier than black or red or even ashen ones. Because pale lingered in a deep, raw way. In a personal way.

She came in once morning came, hair neatly combed and glasses on. She was achingly profession, her boots clicking neatly on the floor and her sword at her hip.

But he knew her, knew the lack of a grin and the tilt of her head and the sheer absence of ease. Nobody else would notice her inner conflict. They would only see her sure, purposeful walk as she came to stand by his throne and not look further.

She didn't meet his eyes either: another tell. She was never afraid to _stare_.

"Hey, candylawyer."

Her eyes shuttled to his. One second, and then away. She rolled her shoulders and settled into her stance, one hand resting neatly on the dragon skull of her sword. "Good evening, Makara." Her voice was crisp, that of a paper filer addressing her superior.

Anger suddenly surged through him, and he knew immediately what his choice would be. "That it?" She flinched at the darkness in his voice. "We all up and ignoring our motherfucking serendipity?"

She turned to him, and he saw the anger in her eyes. _Good_. She was too afraid. Anger would make her unafraid. "What else are we supposed to do, Kurloz?" Her words were angry, hard and sharply clipped, but his hatchname was soft, a spot of sweetness on her tongue.

"You know we're miraculous," he replied, no longer angry now that she was, "Never got my pale on like that before."

A sharp, bitter laugh escaped her and he reached forwards to touch her cheek. Bitterness didn't suit his Neophyte. She stilled at his touch, eyes fluttering shut. Her voice was hushed, but filled with longing. "You know we can't."

His hand fell away, but she caught it, lacing his fingers with hers. Her skin was hot against his, and it sent sparks racing all the way up his arm and down to the rest of his limbs. Her shoulders slumped slightly and she brushed her lips across his knuckles. Wordlessly, she climbed up until she was in his lap, her back to his chest. They were both too bony to cuddle this way, but they somehow managed to fit themselves together, curled comfortably in the hard seat of the throne.

"Kurloz. . . ."

"Shhh," he murmured back, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, "We're motherfucking _serendipitous_."

He felt her laugh. Her entire body moved when she laughed, and it was entirely endearing. "Yes, we are, but that doesn't mean we don't have problems."

He shrugged, a motion that took only one shoulder. "We've got all of motherfucking forever to deal with that, sistermine."

They were both weapons, made to kill with ruthless efficiency. Funny how he had found softness in a place just as hardened as him.


End file.
